Chapter 34: The Prelude Of Blood

Callum snorted, his eyes not even looking over, casually tossing out a line as if flipping through a boring page of a book.
An invisible cut to Josh’s pride, but he didn’t turn back or reply.
“I thought… after breaking your leg, you’d be a bit wiser,” Callum said with a cold smirk—a smile only from someone who’s long lost feeling and is used to stepping on others.
Callum blew a slow purple ring of smoke up to the ceiling, then tilted his head to look at Gen with mocking amusement. “You want me to spare that rundown inn of yours?”
“Join my game.”
“Just a round… for entertainment. Ten of my men, barehanded, right there in the middle of the floor.”
Callum’s voice turned colder and more decisive as he pointed to the empty space arranged right at the center of the tavern.
“If you survive, your people will be left in peace. I’ll even forget that place exists—it’s not worth my time,” he laughed as if granting a favor.
“But if you die… well, I get a fun evening.”
Gen didn’t answer immediately. He picked up his glass, took a sip.
The warm liquid slid down his throat, a bitter, dry, spicy taste stinging his nose. No aftertaste, no depth. He put the glass down, eyes not meeting Callum’s, voice flat and indifferent: “Weak wine.”
“Just like your little game.”
A silence fell over the room, as if something was cracking in the air.
Callum raised an eyebrow, the smile on his lips briefly disappearing.
“What did you just say?” he asked, sounding as if confirming he had been insulted.
“I said…” Gen slowly rolled up his sleeve, “Your game is foolish. You think I’d bow my head and jump into your monkey circus?”
Hearing that, the closest thug quickly stepped forward, hand reaching for the dagger at his waist to threaten, but before he could draw it, Gen suddenly stood up, grabbed the heavy ebony table’s underside—something four men would need to carry.
Without warning, Gen yanked his arm and flipped the table back as if it weighed no more than a tarp.
CRASH!!!
The heavy wood slammed directly into the thug’s body, tossing him back like a straw sack. His body flew backward, and the falling table crashed down on him, pinning him to the rotten wooden floor.
Shards of glass flew into the air, falling like shattered hailstones.
The whole room froze.
Callum’s men’s eyes shrank back in shock. No one reacted in time, because no one could imagine that a man of seemingly average stature could possess such strength.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. There was no more room for words.
Only the sound of blood dripping beneath the overturned table and Gen’s eyes, cold as ice, not bothering to look at the crushed man.
“Like the game?”
“Then let’s begin, but the rules will be mine.” Gen cracked his wrist; his joints popped sharply.
The two girls sitting beside Callum, who just moments ago had clung to his shoulder like it was a safe haven, now paled. One whispered a scream, clutching her chest, standing up so quickly she nearly stumbled. Without a word, both bolted from their seats, skirts disheveled, rushing toward the shadowed corner behind the bar, disappearing as if a single moment’s delay would drag them into the coming storm.
“Kill him!” a shout tore through the air from Callum’s thugs.
The scream seemed to fuel them. One man drew an axe from his back, but before he could lift it, Gen spun around, delivering an uppercut powerful enough to send the man flying into the air before crashing down, neck broken, in the center of the floor.
Another yelled and slashed with a long knife. Gen sidestepped lightly to the left, then punched the man’s chest like a hammer striking a wall.
CRACK!
The sternum shattered. Heart stopped.
In less than ten seconds, three men lay motionless.
The tavern’s noise died as if strangled.
No one dared breathe loudly.
Callum sat, leaning forward halfway, eyes wide—not from shock, but from humiliation.
“Enough.” He growled, no trace of mockery in his voice. He pointed at Gen like aiming at a rabid dog that needed to be put down.
“Kill him! Use all your weapons, corner him. I don’t want to see him leave here alive!”
Chairs clattered loudly like a signal to start the hunt.
About a dozen men charged, all brandishing weapons: axes, knives, swords, even one wielding a heavy iron chain.
Tables and chairs were kicked aside; obstacles cleared as they formed ranks to trap Gen against a wall.
But Gen stood still, blood dripping from his hand onto the wooden floor, drop by drop.
He glanced around, then smirked.
They didn’t wait for any more orders.
Steel hissed through the air; footsteps thundered like a hungry wolf pack closing in on their last prey.
The first man swung the iron chain fiercely, the wind slicing past like a punishment aimed for Gen’s head. Gen leaned back slightly, caught the middle of the chain while it was still flying, then yanked hard. The soldier lost balance and fell forward. Gen’s knee slammed into his face, blood exploding like a shattered dam, teeth scattering like kernels of corn.
Two others charged from the left and right, long swords gleaming in the lamplight. Gen shifted, grabbed the right attacker’s wrist, pulled him down, then used that man’s body as a shield to block the slash from the other.
In a flash, the sword plunged deep into the comrade’s back.
Before the survivor could understand what had happened, Gen stomped hard on his knee. The sound of breaking bone rang sharply. He collapsed, clutching his knee in agony.
Another man lunged from behind, axe raised. Gen instinctively bent, spun, then elbowed backward straight into the attacker’s temple.
The man fell like a banana tree cut at the roots, his head hitting the floor, twitching.
The small arena became a battlefield soaked with blood, moans, and despair.
Five left, then four, then three reckless men charged as if death was no option.
The rest no longer dared to advance, weapons still in hand. Their eyes looked at Gen as if he were a creature from another world.
Gen let his hands drop loosely, his heart still slow, breath steady—as if just warming up.
“Anyone else?” His voice was hoarse like ashes after a great fire.
No answer.
Only Callum’s face, pale and greenish.
Gen glanced at him, as if reading the whole outcome.
He smiled.
Not a smile of joy or victory.
But a cold, empty smile mixed with boredom, like solving a tedious repeated math problem.
“That’s all?”
Gen muttered, glancing down at a crawling thug reaching for a fallen knife a few steps away. He kicked the man’s head lightly—not hard enough to kill, just enough to knock him unconscious.
“I could end all of this in two seconds.” His voice barely above a whisper, as if narrating to the empty air. “One magic strike, one breath, and everything collapses. This whole floor, these rotten wooden pillars…”
Gen’s gaze flicked from Callum to Josh—the man who had been oppressed by Callum but still clung to his last shred of dignity.
Josh stood behind the bar, clutching an empty serving tray as if it could shield him from all disasters. His eyes were not afraid, but worried. Not for himself, but for the old tavern.
Gen exhaled deeply, then looked toward Callum.
“But this place is not yours.” Gen pointed at the wooden floor beneath their feet. “It belongs to the man whose leg you broke.”
Callum clenched his jaw tightly, anger flashing uncontrollably in his eyes. He hissed through his teeth loudly enough for all to hear: “You fools!!! Don’t you know how to use your skills?! Or have your daily brawls like market thugs made you forget everything?!”
As if doused with cold water, several men began murmuring enchantments, their breathing growing deeper and stronger. A pale golden light enveloped their bodies; blue veins stood out under their skin, muscles taut like steel wires ready to snap.
Bones cracked loudly as they gripped their weapons tighter. The cold metallic scent mixed with pungent sweat, turning the tavern’s air into a tangible threat.
But the chaos didn’t stop there.
Outside the tavern, a dozen or so men gathered in the open yard heard the shouting. They abandoned their duel, left their betting coins behind, and shoved each other as they ran toward the tavern.
The wooden door slammed open with a bang; the night wind blew in, carrying the smells of sweat, blood, and alcohol in a thick mixture. The newcomers stepped inside and immediately saw Gen standing among the corpses, blood dripping onto the floor, while a group surrounded him hesitated to attack.
“Damn it… he killed nearly ten men by himself?” One of them growled after seeing the situation clearly.
“Charge! Tear him apart!”
In just a few breaths, Gen found himself trapped between two encircling forces — inside, a group who had already drawn their weapons and activated enhancements — skills that could be purchased anywhere in the Imperial City — and outside, those who had just burst in. The scent of blood on Gen’s hands seemed to ignite their hatred even further.
The sound of footsteps echoed relentlessly, like a pack of wild beasts gradually closing every gap around him.
But then…
Amidst the chaos of mingled blood and alcohol scents,
The tavern door suddenly creaked open quietly.
Not a loud crash or hurried movement like Callum’s recent henchmen. Just the old wooden hinge squeaking softly, yet it made the atmosphere inside tense, as if someone had just placed a heavy stone in the middle of the room.
The figure stepping in was tall and imposing, his jet-black hair meticulously groomed, every strand perfectly in place. His silver sideburns framed his angular face sharply, contrasting vividly against the dark hair, giving him an aura both commanding and unmistakably refined.
A pitch-black cloak hung loosely over his broad shoulders, trailing down to his heels, reminiscent of the knights of the ancient Crusades. The loose fabric couldn’t fully hide the muscular, sturdy frame beneath — it was as if the cloak tried to conceal his power but failed.
Aaron stopped at the doorway, his serious gaze sweeping across the tavern’s interior. No one heard his footsteps, even though he took three steps inside; the wooden floor, usually creaking under weight, remained silent beneath him.
The scent of blood, the smell of alcohol, the moans of the wounded — all reflected in those eyes before settling on Gen. A look of appraisal and scrutiny, as if confirming that the person standing there was indeed someone he once knew.
Callum noticed the stranger interrupting and raised an eyebrow, tilting his head in suspicion. “Old man, you’re in the wrong place.”
Aaron didn’t answer immediately. He stood tall, his shoulders blocking the doorway, his hoarse voice low but clear enough for the whole tavern to hear: “No, I am in the right place.”
Some of the axe- and sword-wielding henchmen froze, instinctively alert at the heavy aura radiating from this man — despite the fact he had yet to draw a weapon.
“Trying to interfere with my business?” Callum squinted, his patience clearly gone.
Aaron merely glanced at Callum — a slow, cold look, like observing a trivial obstacle.
“No. I came… just to see what a soldier is doing here.”
His eyes returned to Gen, heavy as a boulder, yet not hostile.
“What’s going on here?”
Aaron asked calmly, without a trace of a smile.
Gen tilted his head slightly, forcing a weak smile, voice trembling just enough to sound believable: “It’s nothing, sir. Just… a small misunderstanding.”
He lowered his gaze, hiding the sharpness and composure of someone who had just defeated several men. To an outsider, he appeared as nothing more than a man trying to escape trouble.
Callum chuckled, a low laugh filled with contempt. “Misunderstanding? Here, misunderstanding means a stranger stepping into my territory, sitting at my table… and refusing to pay.”
He glanced at Aaron with a crooked smile. “Old man, this isn’t your business. Unless you want to die together.”
Aaron didn’t move, staring straight at Callum. “I ask again. Why is a low-level soldier surrounded like he’s about to be executed?”
Callum jerked his chin toward Gen. “Because he thinks he can stand against me. Here, that’s the only reason to die.”
Gen shrugged slightly, shaking his head. “He… is exaggerating… I didn’t do anything.”
Callum’s tone immediately hardened with each word. “Didn’t do anything? He took down my men with his bare hands. You think someone like that is innocent?”
Aaron kept looking at Gen, his eyes scanning him, then shifted back to Callum. “Sounds more like boasting than the truth.”
Callum narrowed his eyes, stepping back slightly before waving his hand in command: “Kill him. In front of this old man, so he understands the rules here.”
With that harsh order, battle erupted instantly. The henchmen charged forward, completely ignoring Aaron.
Gen shifted his footing slightly but suddenly held back.
He knew if he attacked too fiercely, Aaron would notice immediately. So he stood still, only dodging fatal blows, letting his shoulders and back take some hits that looked painful enough to make him collapse.
Aaron sighed — a breath old and heavy as a stone falling into a deep well.
In an instant, Aaron blinked and lunged forward. His shoulder twisted slightly as his bare hand swatted away an axe blade aimed at Gen. The push was light but sent the attacker flying backward into the wall, unconscious.
Then everything happened too fast to witness like a storm’s arrival. Aaron moved silently, but every punch and kick carried the weight of a thousand pounds. Within a few short breaths, the tavern floor was littered with unconscious bodies.
Callum hurriedly stepped aside. His eyes met Aaron’s cold stare and immediately dropped.
It all ended too quickly — with basic punches and sharp kicks, Aaron swept through the group like knocking over wooden statues in a children’s game.
The wooden floor still trembled lightly from Aaron’s strikes. Moans faded, broken chairs lay scattered like the aftermath of a nighttime storm. The whole room felt heavy, left only with the ragged breathing of survivors.
Aaron stood upright, smoothing his black cloak. His old yet sharp eyes scanned the room once more.
But… something was off.
He stepped more slowly, looking carefully. Those he had knocked down were still moaning or unconscious but breathing. However, some other bodies lay silent, no breath at all. Their wounds weren’t caused by blades or swords. Their faces had collapsed, necks twisted unnaturally, chests crushed as if by a tremendous force.
Aaron bent down, lightly nudging a body over with his foot. The wounds were clean, precise, and lethal.
He was silent for a moment, then fixed his gaze on Gen.
“Bare hands…” he said in a low voice, slowly asking, “Who did it?”
Carrying the certainty of a man who once counted lives on the battlefield.
Gen didn’t answer right away. He bowed his head slightly, as if trying to remember, then looked up, directing his gaze toward Callum.
“When they dragged me here, I was trapped between two lines of people. In front, behind — all I saw were backs and heard shouts. When I got inside, I saw some lying motionless. I… don’t know what happened before that.”
He spoke slowly, his breath uneven, gripping the fake wound on his ribs — a blow he deliberately took earlier to justify his appearance. His eyes briefly revealed the helplessness of someone too weak against violence, nothing left to hide… at least from an outsider’s view.
He paused, then added in a calm tone, “Lord Callum was here earlier, probably knows better than I do.”
The words sounded like harmless yielding but tossed the ball to Callum’s side.
Aaron’s gaze shifted to Callum. He only saw him grinding his teeth, jaw twitching. If he spoke the truth, he would have to admit losing nearly a dozen men in front of himself helplessly.
Callum swallowed his anger, remaining silent.
Aaron looked at both of them, his deep eyes unreadable.
“I see…” he replied, brushing dust off his sleeve. His voice calm, but his gaze sharpened with a chilling edge.
A moment of silence stretched. The moans of the survivors echoed clearly in the quiet.
Then Aaron turned away, seemingly accepting the answer for now. But in his mind, every detail of the tavern, body positions, fall directions, and marks on the floor were etched into memory. No proof, but battlefield intuition rang an alarm — This lowly soldier… is not simple.
Gen watched the retreating figure, a slight smirk curling at his lips — uncertain if it was a smile or a warning to himself.